


Afterimage

by technocouture



Series: Metamorphoses [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Self-Destruction, photocopier sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 12:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16723506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technocouture/pseuds/technocouture
Summary: "We're not the same," Yuta repeats, "only one of me."





	Afterimage

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the irregular office teaser, the lyrics from regular and limitless  
> im so sorry
> 
> afterimage: an impression of a vivid sensation, especially a visual image, retained after the stimulus has ceased

The blue numbers on the clock radio switch to 4:17. Yuta’s eyes strain on the electric light illuminating the nightstand, and bathing the darkened bedroom in a cold glow. The low, muffled beat of dance music resounds through the walls and floor. Yuta shuts his eyes and rolls onto his side; a prolonged sigh escapes him, filling the tense air of the room.

He drifts off listening to the deadened noise, pop mixes and the increase of voices he recognizes one after another. From the sound of it, everyone’s come. Chenle’s distinct pitched laugh erupts over the rhythmic music. Yuta opens his eyes and stares — 4:39. Kun comes back from his shift at 5; he will have 2 hours left before work.

The covers slip from Yuta’s back. A frigid chill runs over his heavy body that coils itself up. His hands and feet push over the bed, stirring with a tingle the emptiness. Yuta’s eyes flicker to the alarm, then the fire extinguisher on the floor. He pulls himself up and feels his chest tighten at once.

“Don’t,” comes the deep voice. “Come back.”

The faint light wavers on the wall where Yuta focuses on it. His hair falls over his eyes, obscuring the blurry sight. Breathing through his nose, he counts to 10, and awaits the touch on his head. It drags him back to the warmth of the bed, to the hollow where he’s enveloped by the pair of arms. He gazes at the ceiling and listens to the blend of voices softening with the breaths against his neck.

After a while, the noise dies down. The clear sound of footsteps in the stairwell followed by the thud of the apartment door closing reverberate in the room — Kun’s home.

 

—

 

The truth about Yuta was that he needed to be loved. He knew this well, and instead wanted to think he was better than the innumerable men there were like him, addicted to the attention and feeding off relationships—that it was not a difficult thing to realize, and even less to admit. A shameful thing, however, was a different story. In Yuta’s belief, it was more a vice rather than a fault, something transmutable and not inbuilt, and to acknowledge it meant that he had to commit to it, commit to himself. It was something he needed to claim shamelessly. Yuta knew who and what he was, deep down as a person. He was someone who rarely denied themselves anything, a strange idea he would come to perfectly understand one day, and let it consume him.

Like all things do, it originates in childhood. Yuta is a fearless boy, overly sociable and demands constant attention, which makes him popular with the children in his class, but not much favored by the schoolteachers. Of all his playmates there is one boy who is his best friend; Yuta doesn’t know his name, but the boy is always in his games, and never leaves his side. He comes when he’s left alone at home, and when no one will play with Yuta, he turns to him. They share snacks, take naps together, hold hands during recess. He comes to Yuta’s house to eat dinner and have sleepovers. When he’s happy, he laughs with him, and when he’s sad, he cries with him. Though Yuta doesn’t remember much, he knows they were always together — the first years are a blur, as is the boy’s face.

From first to sixth grade, Yuta’s personality is severely reinforced. He works in eager ways that his teachers and parents can’t keep up with, which he never misses a chance to boast about. He’s both the most popular and disliked kid in school, has cliques and crowds, but close to no one he can call his friends. No one but the boy who’s been with him since preschool, his best friend following him everywhere, class after class, grade after grade, always a turn of the head away.

Yuta starts to see his face, and recognize it as the years pass. He remembers them playing in front of the mirrors in the boys’ washrooms, in the mirrors of his bedroom and dresser, in the glass of the doors and windows around the school, and in his house. He has a round-shaped face, big eyes and ears. Like Yuta, he smiles a lot, but his teeth never show.

Sometime toward the end of fifth grade, his mother becomes angry with him. Yuta’s noticed the change in her character for a while, but it’s around Christmas where he mentions having the boy over again that she snaps. Yuta is 10 now, he’s growing up, he’s not _a little kid anymore, stop pretending, stop playing these games_. Yuta’s not really listening to her, paying attention to his friend pulling him away from the kitchen, beckoning him back toward the bedroom.

On that afternoon, for the first time in years, Yuta takes a proper look at the boy. His face is as he remembers it, though it appears a little foggy. They’ve spoken countless times, but the words that leave the boy’s mouth sound like the first he’s ever heard, and it marks Yuta for the rest of his life.

“Yuta,” he says. It’s his name he says first. Then: “Are you mad?”

“What?” he replies, a little disturbed.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No. Why?”

Instead of an answer, the boy hugs him. Yuta wraps his arms around them and lies down on the mat. They play with his racecars until his mother calls him down for dinner. Yuta doesn’t mention him again, only glances at the chair next to him and finds it empty.

By the start of middle school, he’s more or less understood what’s going on. Yuta’s personality reorders itself at the rupture; he fits in as the _cool kid_ , charismatic and confident, the easygoing boy who signs up for many sports and clubs. Yuta plays soccer, joins charity clubs, language and arts class, the dance team, and even the anime club. He’s the _hotshot_ of his year’s grade, and though he isn’t as loud as he used to be, he remains unabashedly outspoken in his opinions.

The first two years pass without disturbance. Yuta’s grades are excellent, he’s a promising athlete, and he builds his circle steadily. But in the summer before ninth grade, Yuta goes back to Japan on a trip with his parents, and all contact is cut off with his schoolmates. It’s during this summer that it starts—the boredom, the restlessness, the urge and itch under his skin. He hadn’t realized how absorbed he was in his social life, to the point where he felt frustration at being disconnected. He wanted to talk to someone—he wanted to be talked to. He wanted someone new to be interested in him, to give him attention and entertain him. He wanted to be seen.

His father’s house is in a residential area that’s a considerable distance from the heart of the city. Because of the heat, Yuta doesn’t go out much, and instead spends his days around the parks and in the house. He plays games on his phone and learns a few dances for the start of the school year. He cooks with his grandparents and chases the white cats in the streets. He keeps himself occupied to forget the tense feeling in his body, and to ignore with all his strength the presence he feels slowly growing around him.

One morning, he wakes earlier to make breakfast. He’s still in a drowsy morning daze when he shuffles into the kitchen, and without thinking pulls two cushions out from under the table. He cooks the rice and eggs and makes the natto. It’s only when he finds himself settling two plates on the table over the seats that he realizes what he’s just done, and he startles back, almost knocking the food on the floor. There’s a split-second where a figure flashes past his eyes, somebody sitting on the cushion and looking up at him, but Yuta turns back and quickly flees to his room.

He stays frozen in his bed for two hours. The house is empty, save for himself. After some time Yuta takes out his phone and eyes the screen. He tilts it until he sees, behind him, the figure in the reflection, sitting at the bedside and legs sprawled over the sheets. Yuta lowers his phone and cautiously turns around, a calm glare over his face.

After three years, he’s slightly _more_ than Yuta remembers him. The shape of his face has grown, and his eyes and hair have gained colour. The expression on his face looks so genuine—he looks so _real_. Heart stammering, Yuta is scared, and he doesn’t understand it.

They don’t talk at first. Yuta returns to the dance videos he watches; he learns the choreography and finds the boy copying the movements alongside him. They go stroll around the park and then shopping at the market. Yuta shares the snacks and makes meals for them. They watch anime on TV and catch up on manga. He doesn’t say a word—he can’t.

When it’s time to go to bed, Yuta washes his face in the bathroom. As he raises his head and looks in the mirror, he sees him, staring right back. Anxious, Yuta goes to rub his eye, and finds the boy in his reflection moving in sync. Yuta punches the lights out and marches to his room, throwing himself on his bed, into the covers. It isn’t long before he hears the brushing of the sheets and feels the presence creeping next to him.

“Why’d you stop talking to me?”

The deeper change of voice strikes Yuta, blinking in surprise, and admittedly, _guilt_. He shuts his eyes and buries his head in the pillow.

“You’re not real,” he mumbles, says out loud, so he can hear it himself, and believe it as much as possible. “You’re not real.”

He feels an angry ache in his chest. Trembling, he raises himself up and makes face at the boy in front of him. Even in the darkness, Yuta can recognize him.

But the boy doesn’t answer, only does what he did three years ago—hug him lightly. And Yuta can’t help it, can’t help himself when he feels so _lonely_ ; he takes them in his arms and falls back on the bed. They talk all night, tangled in each other, and Yuta rejoices at the renewed connection, waking in the morning feeling practically euphoric. The boy is sitting at his side, yawning cutely and scratching his cheek.

It’s a blowout summer, of total self-indulgence. His friend is back in his life, only this time, Yuta knows to be careful. He talks only when they’re alone. Sometimes he’ll surprise Yuta by popping up in places, shiny surfaces and empty spaces. They exchange glances and words like secrets; it becomes a game. And Yuta, still so young, so naïve, doesn’t think too much of it, never asking him more than: “Will you be here tomorrow?”

The answer is always: “Will _you?_ ”

When the school year starts, Yuta is excited. With the summer’s passage, he’s hopeful to change his ways somewhat. But as soon as he’s thrown back into his hassling life, he’s swarmed by all the people whom he doesn’t even want to call his friends anymore, and he feels suffocated. He can’t resist, slipping back to his old absorbed self.

He forces himself back into the people. He becomes incredibly moody, and every once in a while he’ll get an innocent comment on how it’s like he’s himself one moment, and a different person the next. His mind is always running, his body is always moving, working nonstop but he needs it. He craves the heaviness, the pleasurable ache in every part of him. He wants it too strong and too fast, and on some days it really feels like he’s going to break.

They catch him mumbling, sometimes. Staring off in a random direction, at a blank space, expressions twisting. His parents notice most, when he doesn’t come home late and almost passed out. He sees the apprehension in his mother’s eyes, pretending she doesn’t know anything. Yuta hates how they look at him. He hates feeling followed around, hearing sounds in silence, blinking things out of his vision. As soon as it becomes evident, he finds someone to keep him occupied. He doesn’t care who they are, just needs the attention, to satiate his impulses and fulfill his greed. Yuta breaks a lot of hearts, but he doesn’t care.

By graduation he’s not quite the boy he was at the beginning, just somehow worse. There’s a great relief to be done with this part of his life and out of his hell circle. He’s glad to never see these people again and to have the chance to start anew, but there’s no question that he’s nervous, and no helping the fearful feeling in his head, when he’ll soon be left on his own.

There’s not much that really inspires a passion in Yuta, and so he chooses to go in international business like his father. He makes it to the top schools and tries to take it slow. It doesn’t work. Only a few weeks into highschool he finds himself tempted by the untouched canvas of people. He searches for them, dates them, sleeps with them, hurts them, does things to them and to himself that can’t be considered healthy. At this point in his age he’s more aware of his behavior, and he thinks about it often. He thinks about _him_.

Yuta knows how attractive he is as a person. He wants to be noticed — he wants to be seen. But he avoids mirrors. He avoids looking fixedly at spaces too long, and he avoids being alone. Instead he finds people to shower him with attention, praise, compliments and favors, then drops them when he gets bored. Yuta gets bored easily. But he doesn’t care what people think of him, though some small part in his head was always there to remind him of what a pitiful person he ultimately was, how sad, mad, and relatively _bad_ he was, and would keep being.

Then in the last year of highschool, Yuta meets a new student from China. They’re paired up for the final project since Yuta’s at the top of his class, and the student seems to have trouble with the language. Kun is an extremely simple person, more than anybody Yuta has ever met, and while it would be obvious for them to clash, Yuta finds himself dumbfoundedly fascinated by the contrast in their personalities. Kun is soft-spoken, clear and honest, while inside Yuta’s head is a maelstrom.

“Do you…” the student starts calmly, brows furrowed in concentration. “You are going to university? Next year?”

Yuta nods, looking at him pointedly. Kun’s surely noticed his behavior, and he must be aware of Yuta’s reputation. But Yuta likes to think he doesn’t — he might have the chance to build a relationship differently with Kun, because it’s suddenly something he wants.

“Where do you think about going?”

Yuta lists the names of schools. Kun tells him the same, then talks about a big company his friend works at, and the job opportunity that could be presented to him.

“It’s a new technology,” he says with a smile. “Lots of potential, lots of business.”

If it wasn’t for his exhausted, entranced state, Yuta would’ve understood Kun’s implied proposition right then. But in the meantime something alters in him. In the meantime he becomes friends with Kun, _proper_ friends, a solid relationship that doesn’t make Yuta avid or leave the other beaten. Yuta doesn’t stop his habits but they’ve weakened considerably from Kun’s influence, and alongside the deplorable thought that whatever mess he got himself into, he still had Kun at the end of the day.

The problem is that, while he doesn’t seek people out as much anymore, the compulsion in him doesn’t wane. Yuta’s desire turns into desperation, and he tries to drown himself as much as possible in school and work, because he knows what’s going to happen when the detachment fully takes form. He can already feel it coming; the glimpses, the resonance in his head, the actions he finds himself repeating, again and again. Each day the presence that follows him becomes more and more detectable, and Yuta is running out of defenses.

One night at a party with his cohort, the pressure is too much and he gets drunk out of his mind. He kisses Kun fast enough to prevent any reaction, and while Yuta has never regretted anything in his life, it’s the closest he’s come to the sentiment. He blacks out some time after that, and wakes with a throbbing headache the next morning in a dorm that’s not his. Dressed in pajamas, Kun is above him with a glass of water and two pills. He doesn’t say a word as Yuta takes them. Only after a few silent minutes does he speak, in a concerned tone:

“Yuta?”

Something about how he just questions his name gives Yuta the hint.

“Are you OK? Yuta, do you remember what happened last night?”

“What,” he breathes out gravely.

Kun gives him an upset look. “You stopped moving all of a sudden. You stopped talking. Then you turned around to me and said _hi_ — you introduced yourself to me. I—you talked so perfectly, it wasn’t even like you were drunk… You said I was being nice and I needed to look out for you when you wake up, and that you would see me another time, hopefully.”

Yuta doesn’t even hear him finish. He pushes himself up and races out of the dorm, ignoring Kun’s worried calls behind him. There's an earthquake in his head, rumbling, exploding. He can't take it anymore. What could he say? How could he say it?

When he runs back to his dorm, he throws his phone and locks himself in the bathroom. A loud, angry cry rips out from his throat. He buries his head in his hands and falls over the sink. All the frustration seems to erupt at once: “Get out of my head!” He shakes all over, eyes shut so tight he sees white. “ _Get out of my head!_ Get out! Fuck!”

His harsh breaths fill the tense silence. He’s expecting the face when he raises himself against the mirror, but there’s only his own. He’s alone in the room. Slowly, his heartbeat regulates, and Yuta composes himself. He closes his eyes and counts to 10, and when he opens them, his reflection is still there.

Sighing, he turns to unlock the door. When opens it, he jolts back at the sight of a figure standing in the frame. Hands come to cup his face and push him backward; Yuta’s breath is knocked out of his lungs as his back hits the wall. The pair of eyes staring into his are full and dark, just as he remembers them. There’s a terrible moment where neither speak, Yuta’s gasps surrounding them, his shivering body overcome with tremors.

The young man leers at him. A soft smile draws over his pink mouth. “ _Yuta_ ,” he says in a deep voice. Always his name first. “Yuta. I missed you.”

Yuta swallows his throat dry, and tries to look at him. He’s dressed in other clothes Yuta owns, but that aren’t the ones he’s wearing. He’s grown — _beautifully_. Like Yuta, his face’s features have sharpened: eyes, mouth, and jaw. The sun-kissed skin, the caramel hair, the prominent cheekbones, the same round ears. His full lips are pink like punch. He might be the most beautiful person Yuta’s seen, and the sight is so familiar.

The hands slide down his face to rest on his shoulders. The touch is so warm, light yet so solid. Yuta knows when he’s imagining something, but this person in front of him looks so tangible, so plainly and definitely _real_ , and everything about the apparition feels _organic_. It’s completely impossible and even so, Yuta can’t deny it.

They stare at each other unwaveringly, until Yuta moves him away.

“You…”

The person tilts his head in interest. “Me. It’s _me_. Yuta, it’s me. Don’t you remember? Didn’t you miss me?”

It’s been years, but Yuta still falls back into him so easily. Into his look, his smile, the manners of his speech, his words and tone, the gracefulness of his gestures. The little boy who followed him everywhere, who played with him when he had no one else. Yuta can’t believe it’s been so long.

The young man steps back. Yuta watches him retreat from the bathroom, never breaking gaze. He walks so naturally, like any body would. He turns around with only his head cocked to the side, and trains his beautiful dark eye into Yuta. The gaze under his lashes is so heavy, so enticing, and Yuta watches it in suspense, disappearing over the frame.

For long, tense moments, Yuta doesn’t dare move. His heart races in his chest and all his nerves are on edge. He peels himself off the wall and drags his feet to the door. He’s unsure if he’s expecting the empty room or not, but an icy chill runs up his neck when he steps out and sees him there, standing above his bed. Yuta steps in the room and watches him sit; the bed dips where he lies down.

“It’s early,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

It’s against all his senses that Yuta approaches the bed. He closes his eyes and breathes out shakily, letting himself fall. Arms brush over his chest, legs move and tangle. The familiarity of the presence is so soothing, so good, so much like _home_ — he can’t help but let himself go.

For the last few months, Yuta keeps the secret, with schoolwork and life. He avoids the subject as much as possible, and Kun, the kind soul he is, doesn’t push it. He mentions the company again before graduation, as they’ve enrolled in the same university. Kun offers him to live in a townhouse not far from campus and the office building where they should join if the internship post succeeds. He would take the apartment under Kun's, where he lives with his younger brother.

“This is a lot,” Yuta says, looking at the rent contract in his hands. Above his shoulder, his other self peers down at the numbers. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for this.”

“You’ve done a lot for me,” Kun answers, smiling sweetly. “I wouldn’t be here without you. Anyway, I think we’re lucky to be in contact. My friend who works at the company, Ten, he’ll give me the details for when we can start the internship. If everything goes well, we’ll be working full-time after university.”

Yuta opens his mouth, but it’s his other behind him that beats him to it: “This is great. You’re the best, Kun. I’m so grateful. We’re going to be so happy together.”

Yuta bites on his tongue so hard it could bleed. He doesn’t miss the way Kun’s expression shifts, the odd look his friend gives him. It’s been happening more and more these days, at inopportune moments Yuta doesn’t expect and never manages to control. Each time, he freezes up, because he has no idea what actually happens, and he most likely never will. Yuta is living with a second body, a second head, face, voice, current of thought in the illusory flesh, outside of him.

Graduation comes and he moves into the apartment. The first thing that’s put up in the bedroom is the shiny, lengthy walk-in closet mirror. It brings back memories from his childhood, and so he sits in front of it. When he looks up, his other is kneeling at his back. Arms wrap around his neck, and a chin rests on Yuta’s shoulder. They stare at each other in the reflection, unblinking.

“Look how we’ve grown,” he murmurs smoothly next to his ear.

Yuta’s become incredibly handsome, and he knows it. But more importantly he knows which of the two faces belongs to him, belongs to the man people see. He’s certain of his own face, at the very least. He’s gotten more used to the presence now but there’s still something inherently disturbing about it. His other tilts his head and presses closer.

“Come on now, take some stuff for the bed. We promised Kun to meet his brother upstairs.”

Chenle is six years younger than Kun and still in middle school. He has Kun’s nose and cheeks, and nothing else. The boy is raucous and has the most impish look about him. He talks fast and eyes Yuta up curiously. Yuta doesn’t like him.

“Chenle has his friends over sometimes, but I try to limit their stays now,” Kun tells him. He babies his brother a lot. “I just wanted to apologize in advance, if they bother you or anything.”

Yuta meets the boy’s company regardless. There’s Renjun, with his sharp smile; Donghyuck and Mark, the two older among them; Jaemin and Jeno, their classmates; and the last a younger kid who skipped to their year and whose name Yuta keeps forgetting, despite how Chenle won’t stop talking about him.

They have lots of parties on nights where he and Kun come back late. Yuta will hear his friend scold them for the bottles and cans littered around the apartment. He’s memorized all of Chenle’s friends’ voices from their loud laughter and rowdy games. Chenle is the loudest with Donghyuck who sings karaoke songs; Mark raises his boyish voice when there’s too much of an uproar; Jaemin and Jeno’s voices crack like glass; Renjun is the most soft-spoken among them; and the last boy’s voice is coming deeper and flat. Yuta learns a lot of things in overhearing their constant chatter, most recently about Kun, regarding the older intimidating man he keeps inviting to the apartment. Chenle and his friends never stop talking.

There’s something about how purely joyful and naïve they act that distresses Yuta. The way they celebrate their youth so carefreely, but so closely and intimately, makes him feel like he’s missed something, that amidst all the partying and partners in his teenage years there was a kinder side Yuta had lacked. Chenle and his friends remind Yuta of something he has no memory of. On some days the sound of their laughter is disturbing to the point of torment. His other self hates it.

He doesn’t know when it starts, but every time he sees or hears Chenle and his friends pass, he’s filled with apathy. But nobody seems to pick up on it, not even Kun. Chenle’s friends take interest in him, in his clothes, his earrings, his fierce face and styled brown hair, as he passes them by on the stairs.

“Who’s that?” Jaemin asks under his breath when they turn the flight.

“Huh?” Chenle, chewing gum, glances back. “Oh, it’s the guy living under us. He’s cool. Talks to himself sometimes.”

The moments in their presence are the most critical ones, where Yuta has to force himself to be in control. His other is always quiet when Chenle and his friends are around, but Yuta sees in his dark eyes the severity of his feelings. It’s not annoyance, more like displeasure, and maybe pain. When they’re out of his view, he’s always left with a headache.

The apartment settled, Yuta focuses on his studies. Times are steady; Yuta’s self-control improves, he gets used to his number 2’s presence, his inputs, his thoughts. His mind organizes and orders itself in a new disposition to accommodate them. He lets him in his life.

The truth is that Yuta _knows_ there’s something wrong with him. That he has a problem. Mostly, he’s afraid that he’ll scare Kun off. He’s afraid he won’t be able to have a proper life if he doesn’t conduct himself accordingly to social rituals—but each day he contains more interjections, each day he conceals it better. He learns to talk to himself, and he learns to listen. Now his other self talks when Kun’s around and Yuta is the only one who engages in it. No one ever has to know.

He’s 20 now, and still with his megalomaniac tendencies. When the urges arise, Yuta knows his ways around. Hook-ups are the usual, but he might dance to drain himself when he’s not in the mood — which isn’t very often, if he’s honest — or spend time with Kun. Except for dancing, his other disappears during in those times, but no matter the circumstances Yuta will always feel him at the back on his mind.

How they operate like they do, he’ll never know; Yuta sometimes wishes he could have an outsider’s perspective for a change. In particular at the moment, where he’s working up a sweat, moving harshly to the beat of the music, in the empty skatepark next to their complex. His other dances with him, copying his movements in symmetry and gliding around Yuta in the choreography. He’s done this before, joined him in the middle of an action, but it feels like this is the first time they’re fully in sync, so much that Yuta almost forgets the reality of his situation, that he has a _problem_ in his head, that the pretty and agile man in front of him isn’t real, and that he’s been conceiving some figment of his broken personality for as long as he can remember.

Yuta throws his hands down as the music stops. Breathless and dripping with sweat, he stands still as their gazes lock, and it’s unbearably intense. The dark eyes focus on him, trailing from his face down to his glistening neck, his heaving chest, the pale skin through his tank top — he looks him down and up in such a harsh, deliberate manner, and while Yuta doesn’t know what this could possibly _mean_ , the knot that forms in his stomach advises him to be quiet.

_I missed you_ , he hears it, from time to time.

The instances keep happening. When Yuta steps out of the shower, he stares too long in the mirror. He feels the pair of eyes on him in the gym and the pool. Sometimes when he’s out with Kun and his friends, he’ll catch himself running his hands through his hair, pulling back his sleeves, biting his lip or toying with his earring. A light prickling sensation will run over him. Even when his other isn’t visible, Yuta is always watching himself.

One evening, the itch under his skin brings him to their regular club. Kun is with Chenle at their parents’, leaving the house empty, and so Yuta doesn’t hesitate to suggest his place for the night. He’s never brought anybody to the apartment since he moved in. Yuta’s seen the guy a few times at the pool and recalls he’s on the swim team; Jaehyun is two years younger than him, and from what he’s understood from the tipsy slurring and half-attempts at flirting, he’s trying to out-fuck his fuckbuddy, whom he’s on very bad terms with.

Yuta doesn’t really listen or care, just pushes them into his bed as soon as they enter his room and focuses on tearing off their clothes. Jaehyun makes low and breathy sounds, cute and endearing. Yuta sits up, watches him shake and cry out as he rides him. If there’s one thing Yuta will never get enough of from sex, it’s watching people fall apart on him. He leans forward and bites on Jaehyun’s shoulder, hands sliding up between his shoulder blades. The younger keens and whines, picking up his pace.

At some point Yuta loses himself in the rhythm, and when he opens his eyes, he’s looking directly at himself in the closet mirror. His heart stops brusquely when he catches his other’s gaze in the reflection, though some part of Yuta knows he was expecting it. He watches him watch them, him and Jaehyun, him and himself, themselves—Yuta doesn’t know anymore, and he doesn’t even care. On the contrary, the scene only seems to spur him on, driving him faster and rougher into Jaehyun. Anger and excitement pool in his stomach at the exhibitionist exposure, and the rush is too much, too fast. He’s surely hurt Jaehyun, who screams as he comes, but Yuta is too focused on coming down from his own high. Their heavy breaths fill the room. When they turn to look at each other, the only thing that comes out of Jaehyun’s red mouth is a low huffed-out: “ _Dude_.”

Yuta’s positive he’s never fucked someone as quick and rough as this. He’s uncertain about what he’s projected, however, and mostly on _who_. When he looks over to the mirror, his other self leaves without a face.

It goes on. Yuta regularly meets up with Jaehyun, who insists they keep at it to spite his fuckbuddy. It becomes apparent to Yuta after a few times that neither of them are really engaging in each other when it happens. Jaehyun’s eyes are mostly closed and Yuta’s always wander back to the mirror. Ever since he’s started this thing with Jaehyun, his other hasn’t manifested outside a surface. Yuta only sees him in mirrors, glass, and screens. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and it’s starting to put him on edge.

Toward the end of year, the built-up stress accumulates with the burnout of exams and work. Yuta hasn’t been able to see Jaehyun for a while, and though there are plenty of people he can seek out, he admits he’s become used to Jaehyun’s body. While Kun is simple, Jaehyun is just nice; Yuta likes him, and thinks they could even become friends, if their arrangement sees any development. But now Jaehyun is fully busy finishing his internship — at the office building of Kun’s contact, coincidentally — and for some reason Yuta hasn’t been able to go about sleeping with any more people. His body’s been so strained these last few weeks, stiff and tight in all the bad places, and he knows it’s more than the lack of sex, the lack of rest, and it’s certainly not Jaehyun’s absence that’s stressing him so much.

He’ll feel something, from time to time. The ghost of a touch, a fading whisper in the back of his head. They linger like something painful, and Yuta’s body grows hot every time it happens. He’s filled with the need to punch and scream. It’s only a week before the end of the semester; he has to make it through.

Chenle and his friends still come to the house, and it gets more and more aggravating as the days pass. Kun promises Yuta things will get better once they finish the year. He tells him the company is holding a party the night of their last exam, and that his friend has invited them, so they can set their sights on the internship.

“You’ll meet everyone there—the employers, the executives… And those from the office building. You’ll get to know them before we start. Didn’t you say Jaehyun was training there? It’s only for a little longer, Yuta. We can make it.”

Sure enough, Yuta completes his exams, and concludes his first year at university. The alleviation that ensues, however, is much less than he’d waited for. In fact, Yuta is feeling a different kind of stress as he comes up to Kun’s apartment to leave for the evening. Chenle and his friend are present, playing a game at the table where Kun is putting out their dinner. They look over to Yuta when he comes in.

“OK. Is everything good?” Kun asks, turning back to his brother. “You’ll be OK for tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chenle answers, picking a tomato from the vegetable bowl. “When are you going to be back?”

Kun glances at Yuta, putting on his coat. “Um. Not too late. Before midnight.”

“Are you coming back alone?” Chenle snickers. “Or are you going to be with—”

“ _Yes_ , Chenle, I’m coming back alone,” Kun says sternly. “We’re leaving. Call if you need anything.”

They exit the apartment, Kun closing the door on Chenle’s noisy laugh and biting response: “I’ll call your boyfriend!” Yuta doesn’t ask, and keeps to questions about the company branch as they make the drive. When the lights gloss over the window, Yuta realizes it’s his other’s reflection that has taken over his. Weary, he traces with his eyes the shape of his cheekbones and jaw, gazes heavy and penetrating. Yuta doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he knows he’ll never be used to this, seeing another face instead of his own.

The building is immense. They’re taken to the floor where their contact office has regrouped. Kun introduces Yuta to his friend Ten, a short man with the most boyish face Yuta’s ever seen. Ten gives them a quick update on the internship process, then coaxes Kun into helping him find the chocolate fountain somewhere on the floor.

Yuta follows them around, greeting with Ten some of the executives here and there, until he bumps into Jaehyun in the lounge, and frankly, he’s happy to see him. Kun chases Ten to the next room, leaving Yuta to the circle of men in suits Jaehyun’s gathered with. They’re all around his age and taste, holding onto champagne glasses and laughing heartily. But the skinny man in the middle with vivid auburn hair is the one who catches Yuta’s attention, and Jaehyun is quick to introduce them.

Taeyong is the youngest son of the company’s CEO, and he’s in charge of the office building where Ten and Jaehyun work. The odds that Taeyong will be his boss in a few months’ time don’t matter to Yuta; all he can focus on is the man’s alluring, ethereal face. For a moment Yuta is rendered speechless, thoughtless, senseless. Taeyong’s face is cut out from the _divine_ , marble-like sculpture and skin, with perfect proportions and striking traits. It’s mostly his eyebrows that draw the look on him, thick and lined, framing his impassive gaze. The sharpness of it all contrasts with the very soft expression he gives when he speaks, the tenderness in his smiles, words, and laughter. Lips unfurling like petals. Big eyes like jewels. Taeyong’s eyes are things of their own, a separate system of intentions concentrated into stares and leers. It’s not natural, and it’s not human; his face is too delicate and it’s _obscene_ to look at. Yuta’s other has a face more real than Taeyong’s.

“Hello,” he greets kindly. “You must be Yuta. Ten mentioned you for an internship next fall?”

He’s so _pretty_ , pretty in the way that makes want to _ruin_. Taeyong’s face is a canvas begging to be painted. It’s provoking. Daring people to approach him, to try and resist. It’s almost like an affront, how his pristine complexion lights up the somber ambiance of the lounge. Yuta’s never felt so hypnotized by someone’s face so badly, so much that it makes his skin crawl, because it’s infuriating. Heat flares up in his chest suddenly, an angry, vicious sentiment. He’s envious. Yuta _wants_ him—he wants to _be_ him, he wants…

“Yuta! Yuta—oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt—” Kun wedges himself between them, wide-eyed and panting. “Yuta, there was a fire at home—but it’s OK! It’s OK, Chenle and Jisung put it out. I—I’m still going to go back home now. I need to go make sure they’re fine. I just wanted to tell you, and ask if you want the ride home, or if you want to stay?”

“Oh,” Taeyong interjects, concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“Y—yes, they should be fine. Chenle set off the stove,” Kun sighs in frustration, “I should’ve disconnected it… I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Yuta says, tearing his eyes off Taeyong. He needs to get out of here. “I’ll go back with you. Excuse us.”

Taeyong bids them goodnight, and Yuta gives Jaehyun a last wave of the hand across the room. When he turns around, there’s a black-haired man with an unnervingly clean smile he sees behind Kun, giving him a kiss on the cheek. His friend is still mumbling apologies when Yuta politely removes him.

They leave the edifice and take the elevator down to the parking lot. Kun is on edge, so Yuta offers to drive, even though he’s probably feeling worse.

“I’m sorry for cutting tonight so short,” his friend mumbles inside the car, staring out the window.

Yuta’s fingers are burning, gripping the wheel. He breathes out shakily, eyes straining on the dim-lit street. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Kun declares abruptly. “I know, Yuta. I know you’re not fond of Chenle and his friends. I know they bother you. I tell them to keep it down, but he won’t listen to me.”

“It’s fine, really,” Yuta repeats. “They’re just kids.”

The car pulls into the lane. The next moment, Yuta glimpses in the rear-view mirror, and he makes eye contact with his other in the back seat. He jolts and shoves the break in one tense motion. Kun lets out a yell as they lurch forward, and the car comes to a stop.

Eyes shut tight, Yuta hears Kun calling his name frantically. “Yuta! Yuta, are you OK? Are you hurt?”

His heart is pounding in his ears. The itch under his skin is blowing up. Yuta feels like he’s going to vomit.

“Kun,” he croaks out, “Kun, there’s something wrong with me.”

“What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Do I have to call an ambulance?”

“No, I—listen to me,” his voice raises, almost to a shout. “Just listen, please.” He raises his head and forces himself to look at Kun. His friend’s face is stricken with panic, but there’s also some nervousness; Yuta guesses he has his suspicions.

“Yuta, what’s going on?”

He takes a deep breath, trembling all over. As the words spill out, he feels his head wrench, and his vision goes hazy. “There’s something wrong with me. In my head. I keep seeing someone. He’s always in my head.”

“In your head?” Kun asks, in an encouraging tone that suggest he knows, but that he needs Yuta to come clean on his own. “Someone in your head?”

“That’s right!” Yuta exclaims, his face brightening with a wide smile; Kun startles back against the window and freezes. “But it’s OK, Kun. We’re OK. You’re so nice, you don’t have to worry anymore. I’m sorry I scared you like that. Are you hurt? Let’s go home, all right?”

Yuta turns back to the lane and reverses the car. He drives them smoothly to the front of the complex, only faintly aware of his limbs moving on their own. Kun’s frightened silence at his side is the only thing keeping him alert.

When he parks and steps out on the sidewalk, the cold night air hits him like a punch. Yuta blinks slowly, and the burn in his body suddenly turns into an exhilarating heat. Kun watches his expression transform in a blink of an eye.

“Yuta?” he attempts warily.

The indistinct sound of shouting from inside the house reaches them before Yuta can answer. In an instant, Kun is racing to the door and up the stairs. Yuta runs after him and lingers at the threshold of his apartment below, listening to the argument. Chenle’s strident voice erupts over Kun’s: “I didn’t do anything! It was an accident! I didn’t call the ambulance because he said he was fine! Kun, please, he’s staying over!”

“No, he’s not! Chenle!”

Yuta steps in his apartment and slams the door. Breathing heavily, he makes his way through the darkness to his room, head throbbing and blood boiling. He punches the lights on and throws himself on the floor. The muffled noise above increases every second. Yuta wrests off his jacket and vest, fingers shaking as he unbuttons his silk shirt. The heat is working him up—his body is on fire.

Unconsciously, he looks up. In the mirror, his other is kneeling like him, watching him struggle in silence. Yuta drags himself over the floor until he’s face to face with his reflection. He examines him intensely, his dark eyes, thick pursed lips in punch-pink, sun-kissed skin, round cheeks. Yuta blinks once, and suddenly the young man disappears, leaving Yuta’s fuller face, his bloodshot eyes staring back.

It’s himself, no doubt about it, and on impulse Yuta leans forward and presses his lips on the surface. His hand slides up the glass and he closes his eyes, summoning the image of himself, his other—he doesn’t know anymore. More shouts resound in the house and Yuta opens his mouth, letting out warm breaths, tongue pushing down and tracing the condensation on the mirror. He feels his body tighten up and he pushes himself closer, harder, spit running everywhere and teeth knocking on the glass. When his knees hit the frame and his stomach brushes the surface, Yuta’s other hand slips into his jeans. A breathy moan falls over his cold lips as he feels himself harden, gut becoming hot.

The yelling becomes indistinct as the language abruptly changes. Yuta’s head is spinning, and he’s rapidly losing himself to the rush. He crushes his lips on the surface and messily sweeps it with his tongue, pumping himself faster and harder. The fluttering touch over his hand makes him open his eyes, and he’s staring right into his other, dark eyes glazed-over and pupils blown. There’s an outburst of voices from above; the hand next to his head contracts, and with a choked-out cry Yuta spills over himself and onto the glass. His trembling body rolls forward, slumping against the mirror.

They never break gaze. His other breathes heavily as Yuta pulls back, feeling suddenly cold. Unblinking, he brings his fist to his reflection, and spreads it over his face. Like he predicts, his other opens his mouth, and hums softly, eyes half-closed and smeared. For a few moments Yuta traces his finger on the mirror, drawing on his reflection the eyes, nose, mouth, ears, mixing sweat, spit, and come. A dry laugh pulls him out of his daze. From the inside of the mirror, his other moves forward, exiting the surface and inching toward him. Arms wrap around his neck as the body fully leaves the glass. Yuta falls back with the weight that drops onto him. He embraces him tightly, burying his head in the crook of his neck.

“Yuta,” he says. “Yuta. I missed you.”

Yuta sucks in a deep breath. In Kun’s apartment, the silence is euphoric.

Morning comes with a storm. Yuta wakes up, his other sitting as his side, yawning and scratching his cheek. The mess on the mirror is disgusting, and Yuta quickly goes to clean it. He pointedly ignores his other’s presence, dragging himself to Kun’s door, with the doomed feeling on his head at what he’d done.

His friend isn’t looking too good for wear. Yuta makes them tea and they settle on the couch to watch the news. Chenle and his friend have left for school, but not before making a wreck of the boy’s room.

“He burned him,” Kun grumbles. “They were fighting when we came back. Jisung’s sleeve had caught on fire. He said it was fine but they should’ve gone to the hospital. I wanted to call his parents.” He turns to Yuta with a miserable look. “Am I too… mindful? I’m always worried about him. Is it patronizing?”

“You’re just looking out for him,” Yuta answers, voice and gaze dull. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Kun sighs. “I wish they’d understand.”

Thunder rolls outside. Yuta lies back against the cushion, placing his cup down. His voice turns to a whisper. “They’re just kids.”

A hum comes in response, and Yuta looks up to find his other sitting on the armchair in front of them. He gives him a slow smile, then gestures to Kun with his head. Yuta follows the motion and finds Kun biting his lip, his face twisted and uncomfortable.

“Yuta, look,” he starts, “I know you’re not feeling well. You’re my friend and I care about you. My—I know a man who works as the psychiatrist in the office building. He’s a clinical social worker. I can give you his number. I’m not making you do this, but I’m just giving you the option.”

Yuta doesn’t say anything, just listens to the TV’s static mix with the distant rumbling and the fall of rain. He wishes he could tell him everything, but there’s no more room for reasoning in his head. When his other gets up, Yuta thanks Kun and makes to leave.

The footfall echoes in the stairwell. Right before he closes the door, Kun perks up and grabs Yuta’s arm. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I ordered a new extinguisher, because of last night. It’ll take some time, but I’ll be out of town for a few days when it gets delivered. Do you mind bringing it up to my apartment when it gets here? I want to make sure Chenle doesn’t misplace it.”

Yuta gives him a couple of nods, and Kun smiles in gratitude, closing the door.

Weeks pass. Yuta works, he dances. He goes out on trips with Kun, has drinks with Jaehyun and his friends. He avoids every reflective surface possible, but it isn’t of any use anymore, because his other seems to have come out for good. Every night he sleeps at Yuta's side, and Yuta doesn’t touch himself. He _can’t_. But he dreams about it, almost constantly: hands gliding down his skin, cupping, grabbing, the thick lips, cheeks and round ears, taking in every inch of the lithe body that’s stopped belonging to him. And after each time his other will give him the slyest of looks because he _knows_ , how hot it is, how _good_ it feels.

The tension between them is rising high to the point where Yuta can’t think anymore, and so he talks. Whatever he thinks ends up coming out of his other’s mouth, and so Yuta just talks to himself. He has every mental conversation out in the open when they’re alone. They’ve never conversed so much, and it occurs to Yuta at some point that he’s never given him a name. Wasn’t it himself, after all? If Yuta had a name to call him by, it would put a distance; if he names him, it would be more alike to talking to someone else. Someone _real_ , maybe. And Yuta knows he’s desperate to keep talking, to delay the inevitability of things.

“Yuta,” he says one afternoon, when he’s doing the laundry. “You’re so mad.”

Yuta turns to him, frowning. “What?”

“You’re so mad at me. Why are you so mad at yourself?”

“I’m not mad.”

There’s a moment of silence before Yuta feels him creep behind him. Lips ghost over his ear, and a hot breath falls over his neck. Yuta starts back, pushing him off. His body involuntarily goes hot, and Yuta curses, the image of the mirror flashing past his eyes.

“Then why don’t you want me?”

“Fuck,” Yuta breathes out, slumping against the wall. He presses his palms into his eyes, melting pink in his vision. “Get away from me. This isn’t…”

“Isn’t what? _Real?_ You’re still on that?”

Yuta lets out a cry of frustration. He throws down his hands and strides toward his other until they’re eye to eye. “What the fuck do you want? What do you want with me? Why are you here?”

His expression barely shifts. “Why? You don’t want me here? That’s a lie.” To Yuta’s panic, he slides a hand up his neck. The touch burns. “You can’t lie to me, Yuta.”

“That wasn’t the question,” he replies through his teeth. “What do you want with me?”

“I just want to live,” comes the simple answer. Yuta is taken aback by the sincerity of it. “And you make that happen for me. I get to surface, and you get what you want. It’s a win-win.”

A tense silence passes. Yuta hears the words again and looks at himself in his eyes. An idea lights up in his head. It’s what he’ll call him. Winwin.

And suddenly a weight seems to lift from his chest. Yuta levels him with a glare and lowers his voice. “And what _do_ I want?”

Winwin’s eyes sharpen. For one maddening moment, none of them move. Yuta’s heartbeat is increasing, his hands are shaking. After what seems like minutes of Yuta running his mind, telling himself to do something, anything—he takes a step back and turns away. There’s a thrumming under his skin, and he can feel Winwin shivering behind him.

He makes dinner for two. They watch each other eat, taking turns to spy on one another. Yuta knows when he feels the pair of eyes on him from the other side of the table. He eats his food slower, more carefully, taking the time to chew and swallow, capturing each of his movements.

When he finishes washing-up, he takes out the small leftover tiramisu Kun’s given him from his boyfriend’s birthday. Winwin’s eyes follow the strawberries on the cake as Yuta sets it in the middle of the table. He goes to sit with him and it registers that he needs utensils. Just as he makes a move to stand, Winwin’s hand moves forward and plucks the strawberry. Yuta watches in anticipation as he brings it to his mouth, excruciatingly slow. A pink tongue pokes out and prods at it. Winwin’s mouth falls open, lips forming a perfect circle around the fruit. He sucks purposively, eyeing Yuta under his lashes, and lets out an inaudible sigh. The look on his face is surely more vulgar than the one on Taeyong’s, and something like arousal mixed with rage builds up in Yuta’s gut.

One after the other, he picks the strawberries and eats them crudely, mouth getting redder and wetter, and messier with the cream that gathers around it. Nimble fingers sink in the cake, pulling it apart. Winwin brings them to his mouth, smearing, spreading, licking, sucking, biting, making soft noises. He never tears his dark eyes from Yuta, who watches him tensely, breathing hard. His mind is going blank, thoughts running after only one thing.

When the plate is empty, Winwin’s hand is coated in white, and spit is streaking down his flushed mouth. He draws his tongue over the cream, and Yuta catches the small curve of his lips. He takes a deep breath before getting up, and heads to the bathroom.

The shower’s water isn’t scalding enough to kill the heat in Yuta’s body. It feels like he’s going to burst apart. He closes his eyes and lets the water trickle down his face, then washes his hair. His fingers scratch harshly at his scalp and nape, trying to crack open his head.

When he steps out of the shower, Winwin is sitting at the edge of the bath, wrapped in his long black towel. Yuta passes him and puts on his pants before going to brush his teeth. He feels Winwin’s stare through the mirror, and averts it as he washes his face. He dries his eyes and when he turns around, Winwin is standing in front of him.

Yuta looks at him, inquisitive. Winwin’s eyes are glossy. Yuta holds his breath as he leans back. Winwin’s hands reach for the fold and tugs — the towel falls to the floor in one fluid motion. Without shame, Yuta’s eyes rake over his naked body, mapping every dip and curve, making the most to remember this beautiful figure of his own folly.

Hands come to cup his face, and he closes his eyes as their lips connect. Winwin opens his mouth and Yuta’s tongue slips in, wet and hot, pressing on gums and teeth, and he can’t understand how he’s made out to the slightest detail, from the texture of his mouth to the flow of saliva. It doesn’t taste like anything.

Yuta’s hands grip his neck and he pulls them closer. He feels everything in his head melt, and his entire body is overcome with a shudder, from the tip of his feet to the roots of his hair. When he opens his eyes, Winwin is still looking at him.

They fuck all night. Yuta doesn’t know exactly _how_ , but it’s of no importance. What happens to him at this point doesn’t matter, Yuta knows he’s reached the point of no return. Winwin is a part of him more than ever now—it’s burned into Yuta’s skin permanently. Yuta fucks him on his back, rough and relentless, drawing out every cry and shout. It’s a hundred times worse than his first time with Jaehyun, and Yuta revels in it. He revels in the sight of Winwin’s pretty flushed skin, his red mouth hanging open and dripping, his lovely face twisted in agony; he revels in the throaty sounds he makes, deep, punched-out moans turning to dry screams; he revels in the heat of their bodies, the heat that pools in his stomach, the heat that fills the edges of his nerves until they explode. Yuta’s never felt more alive. He’s only half-aware of their increasing volume, Winwin’s moans and cries getting hotter and louder; Yuta knows Kun is out of town, but Chenle isn’t. And with the way Winwin keens and begs for it, Yuta can’t bring himself to care.

“Yuta,” he whines. “ _Yuta._ ”

“I missed you,” Yuta answers, breathless. “ _Fuck_ —”

Nothing goes on in his mind.

He wakes at noon, and Winwin is still there, sitting at his side, yawning, scratching his cheek. Yuta feels like he’s in the clouds. He drags Winwin back to the hollow of the bed, licking up his spine. Winwin’s response is a soft chuckle.

They eat. They sleep. They fuck, over and over, again and again. In the evening Yuta goes out to buy groceries and finds at his doorstep a tall post box with a tag on it. The size of the box tells him it’s the fire extinguisher. Yuta glances up the stairwell — he hasn’t heard a thing all day, but he’s certain Chenle is still in the house. An anxious feeling seizes him; there was no way he was going to face the boy after what he must’ve heard. Yuta pulls the box into his doorway before he steps out, Winwin trailing behind him.

He meets with Kun when he comes back. There’s a nice, happy glow about him, and Yuta feels its effect. He’s expecting, however, the discomfort in his friend’s expression when he sits them down on the couch.

“Chenle… told me he heard some… things while I was gone.” He scratches the back of his ear that’s reddening, as he tries to continue. “I’m—you, um, that is… I know it’s not any of my business, but…”

“It’s not,” Yuta replies curtly. Behind Kun, Winwin gives a smirk.

“Right… Right,” Kun takes a deep breath and exhales. “Just… be careful, OK?”

Yuta hums in response. He’s relieved at how simple Kun always keeps things. No kind of scrutiny. His friend doesn’t even remember to ask about the fire extinguisher.

“Don’t mind him,” Winwin says to no one. “He’s still a little mad.”

It’s a torrid summer, of pure indulgence and decadence. They fuck everyday, and everyday Yuta loses himself a little more. Everyday he feels like he gives another piece of himself to Winwin, who becomes more assured, more confident and daring, more _real_ to the world. Winwin is the wicked voice in the back of his head come to life, monopolizing all his attention. They’re closer than ever to the point where it feels like co-dependency. Yuta is unable to find himself alone anymore, and wouldn’t even think of it now.

People around him notice. Kun does his best to respect his privacy, though the anxious looks he sends Yuta’s way can’t be helped. Chenle has become terrorized. Each time Yuta has the misfortune to cross paths with him on the stairwell, the boy throws him a hard glare, full of disgust. On one regrettable occasion, Chenle is with all his friends, and Yuta overhears the harshly whispered _fucking psycho_ as he turns the flight. Yuta has no reason to care, but something about the way Winwin braces himself puts him ill at ease.

Kun keeps forgetting about the fire extinguisher, and one afternoon before going out Yuta brings it to his bedroom. It’s a lot more solid and heavier than it looks; Yuta almost drops it as he takes it out. He removes the receipt and carefully places the extinguisher under his nightstand. It’s always there to see when he goes to bed, when Winwin slips into his arms, mouthing warmly at his neck.

Yuta knows it’s not love. It’s not remotely about emotions, and it’s certainly not reason either. There’s nothing kind about him and Winwin, him and himself, him and whatever Yuta can use to fill in the blank, because Yuta doesn’t want to think that there’s a _them_. He and Winwin aren’t the same, no matter how he should look at it. Yuta _needs people_ , he needs the outside world and the experience of nature, of physicality. Winwin doesn’t want anything to do with that. He hates people, and only wants Yuta by him, on him, in him, at all times. And Yuta is so immersed in himself he doesn’t yet realize how everything is going downhill.

One evening Jaehyun texts him again. It’s been a while, but he’s once more gotten in a dispute with his friend. Yuta is writing a reply when the texts suddenly become disordered. Something sharp and unpleasant runs over his neck. When he looks up, Winwin is scowling in front of him.

“You want to fuck Jaehyun?”

Before Yuta can think of an answer, Winwin steps forward and throws the phone out of his hands. He pushes Yuta onto the wall and crashes their mouths together. Yuta’s hands come to grip his arms and wrest him off, but Winwin resists. It riles Yuta up so bad, so he reaches for Winwin’s throat instead, and drives them onto the bed. A high-pitched moan escapes from his mouth. Yuta’s mind blanks out, and the next second it’s overflowing with anger. He squeezes harder and feels his breath come short.

“Yuta,” Winwin rasps. “ _Yuta_ —”

“What,” he growls, “what, huh? You can’t get enough? You want me to hurt you? This what you want?”

He fucks Winwin with all the anger in his body, hands around his neck, palms pressing and fingers digging into the skin. Yuta’s veins are swelling where he forces, climbing up his arms. Winwin chokes out a cry and brings his hands on Yuta’s, grabbing, rubbing, spurring him on. Yuta spits in his mouth when he comes, then pushes his hand over to stifle the scream as he sinks his teeth under his jaw, hard enough to draw blood.

The night is a blur. Yuta’s consciousness switches like a light. He’s lying on his side when he wakes up in the morning, and his throat is burning. He doesn’t need to turn around to know Winwin is sitting at his side, yawning and scratching his cheek.

That evening, Yuta meets with Kun at Jaehyun’s house for a party with the office. The second Kun sees him, he becomes pale as a ghost. His friend’s eyes fix on his neck, and when he glances back up at Yuta, it looks like he wants to scream.

Ten slides up to them with a taller man at his side. “Hey, you made it—woah.” They eye the purple bruises around Yuta’s throat. Ten gives a small laugh. “Rough night?”

Winwin leans on his shoulder as he asks. Yuta just gives him a quirk of the lips.

Ten tells them the internship is set, and that they should begin in August. They eat, they drink, Yuta makes awkward conversation with Jaehyun and his friends. Nothing remarkable happens until he finds Taeyong in the kitchen, talking to the black-haired man Yuta recognizes as Kun’s boyfriend. Taeyong turns to him and Yuta’s confronted with it again, the face of vice. The man looks much more inviting in casual wear, under the grating lights.

“Oh, hello, again,” he greets with a smile, averting his eyes from Yuta’s neck. “Yuta, right? I’m pleased to say you’ll be joining us this fall. Kun put in a good word for you.”

“He did,” the black-haired man comments, chuckling. His smile is sweet and clean. “Give him the night shift with me.”

“I might give the night shift _to_ him,” Taeyong retorts. “I trust him already. I’ve never met someone so composed. I don’t know how you ever won over such a responsible man.”

“Yeah, he’s nice, isn’t he?” Yuta snaps his head back as Winwin cuts in. Taeyong and his colleague look at Yuta. This hasn’t happened in so long, and Yuta suddenly can’t speak.

“He is,” the boyfriend replies.

Before Yuta can say anything, Winwin steps forward and reaches for Taeyong’s face. Yuta is on him in an instant, shoving him off and forcing him on the counter. Taeyong startles back, eyes widening in confusion. When Winwin tries to touch him again, Yuta jerks his arms back and staggers, muttering a string of apologies under his breath. He doesn’t dare look at Taeyong’s way and quickly drags Winwin out of the kitchen.

The sight of the dim-lit room and the people blurring together suddenly makes him nauseous. He pushes Winwin through the furniture and guests, through the moving darkness and through the noisy music. His heart is beating so fast and loud, that he barely hears a voice call him, and Winwin says something inaudible. Yuta races them to the door and leaves the house without a sound.

When they hit the bed in his room, Winwin taunts: “Is he prettier than me? Do you want to fuck him? You think he wants you?”

Yuta shuts him up, and he never answers.

Weeks pass, and it worsens. Yuta stays in the house and drains himself, talking to Winwin without interruption. He ignores all of Kun’s texts and calls. Chenle’s friends come over almost every day, and every night Yuta goes to sleep feeling more restless, so much that he starts taking pills. The air in the apartment is hot and suffocating, but they don’t stop fucking. Yuta can’t go a day without it. Winwin opens himself for Yuta to hit, choke, beat, bend and wring, and after each time when it feels like he’s finally broken, Winwin comes back demanding more.

There’s one instance where Yuta thinks that they could live like this, instead of enduring it. When the fridge almost empties, he finishes all the alcohol in the pantry. Winwin is watching the news and Yuta, half-drunk, tries to throw the cork in the trash. He picks up a pebble from the potted plant on the table and aims, missing again. He starts to giggle when he sees Winwin’s unimpressed look, and goes to throw more pebbles. They all end up on the floor.

“You have no brains,” Winwin sneers, laughing.

Yuta gives a wide smile and sighs. “ _We_ have no brains.”

It doesn’t register immediately what he’s said, and Yuta barely catches the shift in Winwin’s eyes, his expression that falls. For some reason, this makes Yuta’s exasperation reach its end. He empties the bottle, shuts off the TV, and goes to bed.

The following days are the quietest, but the most agonizing. Yuta doesn’t know why he’s so angry, just that there’s an uncontrollable feeling of hatred inside him. It’s excruciating, and he can’t keep it in. He tunes Winwin out, pretends like he’s not even there. He lets him talk and touch, but gives no response. He doesn’t do anything when they fuck. Yuta puts as much distance as he can between them, and if Winwin is mad, he doesn’t show it. He actually looks rather _sad_ , and some part of Yuta finds gratification at his miserable expression, the deep pain in his eyes. Some part of Yuta wants Winwin to suffer.

He hurts him mercilessly, without respite. But it can’t keep going on forever, and Yuta’s waiting for the breakdown with all the control he has left.

It happens one afternoon where he’s coming back to the house with groceries. He’s at the threshold outside when the air around him feels different, and empty. He glimpses around: Winwin is nowhere in sight. A dryness forms on his tongue and Yuta feels his chest constrict. He fumbles with the key and sprints as fast as he can toward his door. His frantic shouts echo in the apartment, and Yuta follows his own voice to the bathroom. Winwin is kneeling next to the bath and Yuta immediately sees the sleeping pills in his hand.

“What are you doing!” he exclaims, hurrying to him.

Winwin gives a wry smile and lets out an unkind laugh. “Made you look, fucking whore.”

Yuta wrenches the capsule from his hands, and he’s filled with horror when he sees it’s half-empty. He hurls it on the wall and seizes Winwin by the neck. “Spit it out! Fuck!” He yanks him to the toilet and repeatedly slams his fist over his chest. Winwin lets him without a struggle, and eventually starts to cough. Yuta thrusts his head down and waits until the nausea settles in his mouth. Winwin starts making retching sounds, and Yuta retreats to the opposite wall. He’s shaking all over, head throbbing and vision hazing. He can hear, over the vomiting, Kun calling his name in the stairwell.

Winwin doesn’t look at him when he sits up. Yuta snarls through his teeth:

“Did you fucking try to kill me?”

He flushes the toilet. Winwin closes his eyes and laughs again. “It’s always about you.”

Yuta jumps to his feet and screams at the top of his lungs: “Shut the fuck up, shut the fucking fuck up—did you fucking try to kill us?”

Pain crosses Winwin’s face and he lurches again. The footfall in his apartment grows louder and clearer, and the next moment Kun is at the bathroom’s door. “Yuta!”

Both Winwin and Yuta turn their heads toward him. Yuta feels his heart stop when Kun’s eyes land on Winwin, and his friend quickly runs over to his side. Kun’s hands rest on Winwin’s shoulders, shaking gently. “Yuta! Hey!” Winwin looks at him wide-eyed, then turns to lock stares with Yuta. There’s a wicked smile pulling at his lips, and Yuta is frozen in shock.

“What is it, Yuta?” Kun follows Winwin’s line of sight and gazes directly into Yuta’s eyes on the other side of the room. He’s terrified. “Is it him? Is it him?”

“Kun,” Yuta calls, and Winwin lets out a harsh cry.

“Yuta?” Kun rocks him lightly. “Yuta! That’s it, I’m calling Taeil—”

“No!” Yuta watches in alarm as Winwin grips Kun’s wrists and faces him. “No, I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“Yuta, you have to get help,” Kun pleads, voice trembling. “Let me call him, please.”

“No,” he repeats, “no, I promise you, things are good. Things are going to get better.” Then Winwin gives him a soft smile, the one Yuta’s only seen him do so sincerely when they’re alone. Kun doesn’t say anything for some time, only looks at him with so much worry that Yuta’s heart abruptly revives at the sight of his friend on the verge of tears.

“Oh my god,” Kun finally breathes out, and slumps next to Winwin. Yuta watches him loop his arms around his friend, hugging him close. Winwin buries his head in his shoulder and gazes at Yuta under his lashes. He mouths something that Yuta doesn’t see, because Kun pulls him closer and sighs fretfully. The sight of them together, wrapped around each other, tears Yuta to pieces. And he knows that from this moment on, something’s altered between Winwin and him. That Yuta’s reached a point beyond his own reality.

When Winwin stands up, Yuta feels something in his body flow out. He comes to Yuta’s side and stares in the mirror. Kun watches him warily. Then, Winwin pushes Yuta back toward the wall. Relief floods Yuta when Kun’s eyes return to him. He helps him up and they hug in silence for a full minute; Yuta realizes then he can never lose this, lose Kun — if anything, his friend is the only constant in his life, and Yuta’s heart wrenches at the thought. When they part ways, Kun’s eyes are red, and Winwin is smiling bitterly.

Yuta doesn’t eat dinner. He burns himself in the shower and falls into his bed. It’s dark and empty for a long time. Winwin climbs at his side and presses his lips, gently, on the side of his jaw. For the first time in years, Yuta cries. Winwin coos at his side, whispering insignificant thoughts; summer will end, school will start again, they’ll go through the internship, they’ll work at the office, everything will be fine, everything will be good; they’ll see Kun and Jaehyun again, they’ll make friends and it’ll be all right. Yuta listens faintly as he drifts off. Before he falls asleep, his eyes move to his clock radio, then drop to the nightstand. He forgot the extinguisher again.

 

—

 

The 7:00 alarm rings, but Yuta is already awake. He turns it off and heads to the bathroom. Winwin is already there, waiting with a towel in his hands. Yuta washes his face and goes to make breakfast.

Outside, the October murk has settled, drowning the sky and streets in a thick fog. Yuta sips his tea and rechecks his schedule for the day: usual tasks with Jungwoo in the department. It’s been months since Yuta’s entered the NC-Tech branch, and ever since Kun’s been officially transferred for the night shift, Chenle has taken advantage of his absence to have parties at the house. They always settle down right before Kun comes back, and for some inane reason Yuta still hasn’t told him about it. It’s been going on since September, and even after all this time, Yuta still endures it, and still hasn’t brought him the extinguisher. He has half the idea that his negligence expresses he doesn’t want to bring it either.

Winwin gazes out the window, eyes dull. Marks and bruises litter his skin; Yuta’s used to them now. It used to thrill Yuta, hurting Winwin, but now it’s turned like everything else he does at work: a task. He puts marks on him like he does on paperwork. Every bites and strike is inputting another letter, another number; sex has never felt so calculated, and Yuta hates it. He hasn’t had a proper rest in months. Not since Winwin pulled that stunt that almost ended them.

“We should get going,” he mumbles.

Yuta washes up and gets dressed. As he steps into the stairwell, he hears a heavy footfall above him, and looks up to see Chenle’s deep-voiced friend going down carrying blankets. When the boy sees him, he glances down sheepishly and grimaces. Yuta lets him pass first, and turns to catch Winwin’s glare following him out the door. In some time, Yuta will think back to this moment as the last chance he had to do something, but he never figures out what it is.

At the office, Johnny, his department executive, greets him as usual. Jungwoo comes in fives minutes after 8 and they start on their work. In all honesty, Yuta’s younger self would have never thought of ending up in an office job, but he doesn’t resent it. The work is simple, the money is very good, and Yuta finds the people nice. He’s never met so many people he liked in such short time. He’s especially fond of Jungwoo, his soft-spoken colleague in the internship, with the mischievous glint in his eyes that always calms Yuta down when things are becoming too serious and stressful. Jungwoo does some part-time acting, and more than often will recite some of his parts to Yuta when they’re on break.

“The spirit that I have seen  
May be the devil, and the devil hath power  
To assume a pleasing shape; yes, and perhaps,  
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,  
As he is very potent with such spirits,  
Abuses me to damn me.”

But there’s something that has been afflicting Yuta since the beginning of the internship. Something that he’s dreaded and tried his best to prepare for, each passing week becoming more apprehensive. He’s managed to ward off the thought for some time, but Winwin’s manifestations always bring Yuta back to his impulsions. It can’t be delayed forever, and Yuta finds himself at the dead end of his course of actions, when Jaehyun comes to him during lunch with a grim look on his face.

“What’s with you?” Yuta asks.

“Taeyong’s back,” Jaehyun replies sourly. Yuta’s entire train of thought comes to a brutal halt. He watches in agitation, Winwin at his side stiffen, eyes turning fierce.

Taeyong’s return. Yuta tenses up immediately; this wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. Their boss had left for a corporate meeting with the company overseas, in timing with the internship, which fortunately resulted in Yuta not having to see him since the party. And while Taeyong never gave them an official return date, Yuta wasn’t expecting it to be so early. He almost believed that he would never have to face him again. That Winwin wouldn’t have to face him again.

He swallows thickly and tries to control the nervous tremble in his voice: “You don’t sound too happy about it. Since when do you dislike Taeyong?”

“I don’t. It means _he_ ’s back too,” Jaehyun says, scowling. “HR manager.”

Yuta takes a moment to remember Doyoung from HR, with his sharp eyes and silver tongue. It clicks in his head then, after weeks of training under the man’s watch. Winwin lets out a grating laugh, and for a second Yuta panics thinking it’s heard in the lounge, but Jaehyun doesn’t react. Instead he turns around when the muted sound of footsteps enters the room, and Yuta freezes. He looks up at Doyoung who comes into view, clipboards in hands, and a friendly smile on his face.

“Yuta,” he greets kindly when he passes them. His eyes skim over Jaehyun, who stares down at the table. “Dumbfuck.”

“Bitchface,” Jaehyun replies. Yuta would have almost laughed if Winwin’s presence hadn’t increased tenfold, if the intense anticipation in his body didn’t completely paralyze him. Yuta hears the shaky breath Winwin lets out as he steadily eyes Taeyong approaching them. Yuta immediately averts his eyes.

“Enough,” the man says, exasperated. “You _just_ got back. Can’t you two see I’m trying to maintain a proper work environment? We’re having new interns this week. Behave yourselves.” His beguiling eyes land on Yuta, and he gives a pretty smile. “Oh! Hello again. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be around for the start of the internship. But I look forward to working with you now. Has Johnny given you my office information?”

“He has,” Yuta answers dryly, keeping his eye on Winwin next to him. The look on him is so mad, so crazy. Yuta is monitoring his every movement and doesn’t dare even breathe. Taeyong is as honed and beautiful as ever, and it inspires in Winwin such a terrible sentiment, of envy, mistrust, and spite… Yuta can only imagine how he looks like from their perspective.

Taeyong’s façade falters slightly. Dainty lips purse. He clears his throat. “…Well, all right. I’ll be seeing you around then. Once again, welcome to Culture-Tech.” He turns to Doyoung. “Come on.”

They turn away and leave the lounge, but not before Doyoung pulls his tongue at Jaehyun, and not before Yuta has to physically withhold himself on the chair when he sees Winwin inching forward. Jaehyun starts when a low growl slips out. He asks Yuta if he’s all right, tells him he looks a bit sick, and Yuta closes his eyes and answers that he hasn’t been sleeping well, that Kun’s brother is always keeping him up at night and he can’t take it anymore, that he can’t focus on anything when he sees Taeyong and his head is so close to breaking apart but that it just won’t—it _can’t_. He says all this and when he opens his eyes, he knows from Jaehyun’s expecting face that he hasn’t spoken a thing out loud, and Winwin has stopped moving. Instead what comes out of his mouth is:

“I have to go home.”

He hears Jaehyun make a questioning noise and say it’s early. Yuta tells him to notify Johnny and to give his number to Jungwoo. When he turns around, Winwin is stalking out of the room.

Jaehyun’s calls echo behind as he hurries after him. He chases them down the stairs to the first floor. Yuta is hardly conscious during their pursuit back to the complex, as the only thing running on his mind is a terrible, vengeful thought. The effect of Taeyong’s comeback is worse than he'd anticipated. As the streets pass in a blur, Yuta thinks about the man’s plastic face, so arresting, so killer, so uncharacteristic for such a delicate personality, and he thinks it’s a miracle that this face belongs to sweet and mild-natured Taeyong, and not an absolute _maniac_. If Yuta had Taeyong’s face, he would have killed someone.

Winwin hurls the door open, and this time Yuta makes sure he’s locked everything. Winwin drags him by the collar to the room and bites all over his mouth and neck. Yuta clenches his jaw, shaking in anger because they can’t keep doing this, Winwin can’t keep monopolizing his life this way, and Yuta can’t keep giving in. In a rush of rage, Yuta slams him onto the closet mirror, eliciting a breathless moan from his lips — as expected. Winwin eyes him up, and the smile he gives Yuta is full of malice.

“You want him?”

Yuta slaps him across the face. Winwin’s eyes shut tight and his mouth falls open. Red blooms everywhere. He laughs dryly.

“How could someone like him ever want you?” Winwin goes on, shameless. He looks back to Yuta and places his arms on his shoulders. “No one can have you. No one is going to have you. Not like I have you.”

There’s something at those words that ignites a fury in Yuta. His hands crumble into fists, trembling with the rest of his body. Seeing that Yuta remains silent, Winwin continues.

“No one’s going to love you like I do.”

Yuta wants to laugh, because it’s not about love. It can’t. Winwin doesn’t exist in the realm of emotions, there’s no form for him to engage in. Yuta can’t love him, and he certainly can’t love Yuta.

“Can’t I?” Winwin taunts, hands sliding under his jaw. “No one out there can love each other like we do.”

“I don’t love you,” Yuta grits out.

“Yes, you do. Of course you do.” Winwin says like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He whispers: “I’m you, and you’re me. I love you, and so you love me.”

Yuta’s breath becomes cold. He feels chills wracking his chest and head, forcing his body open, and his broken voice is in pieces when he speaks: “That’s not how it works. We’re not the same.”

Tremors. There’s a ringing in his ears, an earthquake in his body. Something sharp and black obstructs his vision, and Winwin’s figure obscures.

“We _are_ the same, you and me.”

“We’re not the same,” Yuta repeats, “only one of me.”

“ _Us_ ,” Winwin draws out, finger slipping slowly under his jaw. “Only one of us.”

Yuta’s hands fly to Winwin’s throat and he shoves him into the mirror. Winwin slips from his grip and falls into the other side of the surface. His face floats above his reflection, then Yuta can’t see anything anymore, and he bursts out with a violent scream:

“No! There’s no _us!_ There’s never been an _us!_ It’s me and only me! Because you’re not real! You’re not fucking _real!_ ” He punches the face in the mirror as hard as he can, knuckles smashing the glass, over and over, again and again, strike after strike until Yuta can’t feel the pain, until his eyes focus back on the colours in front of him. “ _Get out!_ Get out of me! _Get the fuck out of me!_ ” He hits furiously, screams until his throat rips open, until he can be sure the voice in his body leaves him once and for all.

Blood trickles down his arm when Yuta brings his hands to his head. He’s fighting for his breath and shivering all over. The black cloud in his head clears out, and when he looks back in the fissured mirror, Winwin is gone.

 

—

 

“Oh, I am slain.”

Jungwoo’s fingers skim over the pile of documents he sets on the table, and he falls to his knees. Ten claps enthusiastically and cheers, while the new intern of the morning, Yukhei, gazes at him with a captivated look. On the other side of the glass, Jaehyun laughs weakly, resuming his course to the print room with the tablet and papers in his hands. As he passes the desk, he sends in Yuta’s way a concerned look, but quickly turns away and keeps walking.

Yuta’s eyes strain on the computer screen in front of him. He revises the sequence on the sheet and saves it. His bandaged hand moves to the power button — Yuta flinches when his fingers flex. He brings his knuckles to his mouth and breathes out, feeling himself fall asleep.

Exhaustion devours him. His body feels ravaged. It’s been three entire days since Winwin’s completely vanished, and for the first time in so long, Yuta went to sleep alone. For the first time in so long, Yuta was on his own. No one to claim his thoughts out loud. No one to watch his every move. Yuta’s rediscovered his intimacy, but the empty space never felt more entrapping, more condemning in his life. The price of freedom — if that’s what he even _wanted_ — seemed more painful than the two-faced prison he’d been locked in since he was born, but Yuta endures it. He has to.

He’s trying desperately not to close his eyes when the phone call resounds in the office. Ten rounds up everyone and brings them to the second floor on Taeyong’s orders. A wave of relief crashes over Yuta; he needs to move, he needs to talk to people, he needs to find his way back to the real world again, because now he can. Now, it’s safe.

A round of groans echoes in the room when the yellow tape comes to view. Ten places his hands on his hips and calls for their attention. “This section is being remodeled next week, so we need to move the furniture to the storage units. Everybody grab a chair, table, or plant. Taeyong wants the space cleared out by 3, before the design team comes.”

Yuta goes with Jungwoo and Yukhei to the back as the group disperses. There’s a whole set of pots and plants pressed in the corner, and he watches in amusement as his two colleagues race to get the biggest one.

Yuta’s carefully moved two chairs when he returns to the room to get a plant. He comes back with a wave of employees re-entering the floor through the elevator. Jaehyun catches up with him and they make comfortable conversation. Yuta leaves him to lift the heavy plant in his hands, but when he turns around, he stops dead in his tracks. The pot slips from his fingers and falls to the floor with a shattering noise. The room comes to a stop, and Yuta’s blood runs cold.

“Yuta?” Jaehyun calls him. Yuta’s eyes are fixed on the man between Jaehyun and Yukhei, who’s frozen in his movements like everyone else. His dark brown eyes fall on Yuta, curious and puzzled. They’re framed with wide, round glasses, but hide nothing of his expression. Yuta’s glare burns into his lovely face. It’s him. The tanned skin, ample lips, round cheekbones and ears. It can’t be anyone else.

“Hey? Man, you good?” Yukhei’s jarring voice snaps him out of his trance. Immediately, Yuta goes to lock eyes with anyone staring his way. When he counts each of them, he turns back to the man in the middle, who’s glancing around them, looking embarrassed. Yuta’s rage abruptly transforms to horror when he sees Jaehyun patting the man’s shoulder, gesturing to the door outside. He nods and exits, and Yuta watches hysterically as Yukhei follows and talks to him.

“Yuta,” Jaehyun blocks his field of view and Yuta’s eyes finally move. “Dude, are you OK?”

“Who is that?” he chokes out.

“What?” he turns around to where Yukhei has left with the man, then eyes the mess at Yuta’s feet before answering: “Um, he’s a new intern. He came with Yukhei this morning. He’s with HR.”

Yuta’s entire body rattles, and he feels something spike from the deep of his gut and spread to the tip of every hair on his head. Then, all his senses leave him. This can’t be possible. Yuta is dreaming—he’s in a nightmare. Only it’s taken form in ways Yuta can’t possess, ways that are set on destroying him entirely. Was he really not free after all?

“Dude,” Jaehyun says, “don’t be weird. Taeyong won’t have us scaring off the new interns. Keep it cool, OK?”

He goes to retrieve the broom, and Yuta hasn’t moved an inch when he comes back. After some prompting, his senses slip back to him, slowly, like filling an empty glass in drops. Yuta gathers the dirt and picks up the pieces of ceramic. The pain in his hand is numb.

He waits for the end of the day, waits as if it’s going to be the birth of the world. He’s moving like a dead man, a ghost haunting. How could he ever think that he could have a normal life, that he could be free? This is his sentence, the cruel and unforgiving punishment on Winwin's part. If Yuta thought something in him died, he couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s exploding out of him uncontrollably, and he counts the seconds until he can see the man again, see if it’s truly _him_ , see if Winwin can kill the fire in his head, or set Yuta up in smoke for good.

The numbers on the clock change to 4:00. Yuta snatches his coat and bag, and sprints down to the lounge. Some employees are already heading out. Yuta sees Ten talking to Johnny near the elevator. He makes to go ask them about the intern, when the door at the end of the hallway slides open. Doyoung, fully dressed in his coat, exits before turning to the figure standing in the frame. Yuta marches forward and catches the man’s face from behind the glass. It comes closer with each resolute step he takes, and all the sounds in the office die out when he finally reaches them. Doyoung gives them a nod in goodbye and disappears down the hall.

Deafening silence. The other man folds his checkered coat under his arm, and eyes Yuta strangely before walking out. Yuta’s gaze follows him until he leaves to the lounge. Then he bolts down the hall. The man turns around right before Yuta stops in front of him.

He’s seen this face all his life, he’s seen it happy, sad, mad, in agony and in bliss — Yuta’s had this face because it was his own, but for some reason he almost can’t seem to recognize it on this body. It takes a moment to realize that he’s the same height as him, if not the slightest taller. Yuta picks out the differences rapidly. The man’s skin is a little warmer, darker like his hair, and there’s a softer, more natural glow in his dark eyes. The colour of his lips is dustier, less vibrant, matching the rest of the scheme of this face that’s much kinder, much more innocent. Yet it’s still unmistakeably him.

The man’s eyes focus on Yuta for a short second, then fall to the tag on his shirt. He looks back and breaks the silence with his tender voice: “Yuta.”

His name. Always his name first. Yuta’s breath stutters. The voice strikes him dead. He looks down at the man’s own tag, it reads: _Si Cheng_.

Yuta repeats it. Again, and again. Sicheng must find it funny, because he lets out a quiet chuckle. He gives Yuta a polite nod and turns to the elevator. It’s the same pretty and agile motion, the same elegance, in which he presents himself. But it’s not _him_ , it can’t be. How could it be?

Sicheng steps into the elevator. Yuta watches him go as the office noise floods back. The man presses the button, and the doors close on his little smile.

 

—

 

Yuta sleeps alone. The long nights he wakes to the agitation in the apartment above, he lies awake in the silence, and listens. His arm will brush the empty space next to him, and the light will turn blue. The void in mind has projected onto everything around him, and sometimes Yuta will catch the blurry sight of a shadow in the corner of his room. Sometimes he’ll see a shape in the silence. And on the rarest of occasions, there will be a whisper at the back of his head, the ghost of a breath on his neck.

Two weeks pass, two slow weeks where Yuta goes about his routine and meets with the executives. It means he has to be in Taeyong’s presence at least thirty minutes each day, but the grievous encounters are always compensated by the short instances where he crosses paths with Sicheng. Each time Yuta sees the body or hears the voice, he mistakes it for _him_ , and it's with all his willpower that he stops himself from acting out on impulse. Seeing Winwin’s figure move around so freely and _discretely_ from Yuta is a dreadful shock at first, but with each new contact he’s feeling more familiar with this second apparition. Sicheng doesn’t speak a lot, but his expressions seem to convey much more than conversations. Whenever they run into each other, Sicheng will smile for _hellos_ , and give Yuta that curious look reserved just for him. Every time their eyes meet, Yuta’s heart stops, and he waits for the signal, the slightest indication in Sicheng that could reveal himself. But nothing ever gives; Yuta never uncovers any kind of deceit. It’s only himself, gawking at Sicheng hour after grueling hour, and the kind man on the other side who shies away.

Yuta goes to bed every night thinking about him. Sometimes he catches himself muttering in the empty space, as if someone is going to answer. He finds Sicheng in his dreams like in the office, sweet-eyed and blushing, regarding Yuta awkwardly with a sympathetic smile. When morning comes, Yuta is still alone.

One day there’s a colourfully-wrapped package left at his doorstep. Yuta finds a green tea cake and a pink card taped on top. He reads it three times before the words can properly register.

_Happy Birthday Yuta!_

_I came back so late yesterday because I went to pick this up (I know it’s your favorite!)._  
_We haven’t had the chance to catch up because of work but I hope you’re doing well._  
_I wish you lots of love and success this year. Let’s work hard and be happy!_

_Kun_

It’s terribly sudden. Yuta was so absorbed all this time, he didn’t even remember his birthday. And of all things he thinks of the extinguisher under his nightstand, still there, still undelivered. He stores the cake and leaves the card on the table. Outside, it rains.

When he gets to the office, the elevator’s doors open on Johnny and Ten inside the lounge. Yuta is pulled out and accosted before he can greet them.

“Kun says it’s your birthday today!” Ten exclaims. “Why didn’t you tell us? Taeyong has special dinners for all his employees’ birthdays.”

“All of them?” Yuta raises an eyebrow, caught off guard.

“Well, no,” Johnny replies, pushing him toward the hall. “Just those who work on the executive board.”

“Which you’re in!” the shorter cheers.

“It’s someone’s birthday?” Jaehyun’s head pops out from the doorframe further ahead. “Yuta, it’s your birthday? Why didn’t you say so? Does Taeyong know?”

“Know what?” Doyoung’s voice echoes from the opposite room. Yuta braces himself when he sees Sicheng behind the glass as they pass. He’s dressed in a black turtleneck and wearing his round glasses. Their eyes meet over the members’ hasty conversation.

Doyoung turns around then. “Oh. Well, after-tomorrow is Sicheng’s birthday.” Yuta freezes up. “How about a joint party tomorrow?”

“Really?” Ten asks him, and laughs. “Do you think we could coax Taeyong into throwing two parties?”

“But we’re just interns,” Sicheng interrupts.

“You’re on the executive board,” Johnny says. “Don’t worry, I’m betting my month’s salary you’re getting in after the internship.”

“So what do we say? Let’s ask Taeyong at lunch?” Jaehyun proposes.

Everyone mutters in agreement, and the group slowly disperses to their stations. Only Yuta lingers at the door, watching Sicheng from the glass. He lowers his eyes to see Doyoung’s perplexed expression as he tries to resume work. Yuta walks back. When he turns the corner, he catches Sicheng’s eyes again, and the man is giggling under his hand.

Taeyong organizes the party at the office. The celebrations are mostly displays for the lavish meals that the company supplies them with, a special treatment everybody on the board delights in. Yuta brings the cake and is surprised to receive a few presents. Kun gifts him a blender, of all things. Yuta carries it around the entire night. He eats and drinks, losing himself in the pleasant atmosphere, the pretty lights and happy conversation, and among the guests. He manages to maintain a cordial attitude toward his boss when he comes to congratulate him. Birthdays and parties are apparently very important in his office, and Taeyong insists that he’s trying to build a different work ethic from the company. Yuta experiences his presence, though he tries not to look him in the face. If Taeyong notices, he doesn’t say a thing.

Around 10, he finds Sicheng in the middle of the lounge, talking to Kun. As soon as Yuta sees them, the memory of the bathroom flashes past his eyes, and he shudders violently, restraining a gasp. All of his composure leaves him at once. Kun doesn’t seem to notice, and gestures him forward. Yuta is barely holding it together as Sicheng turns to him. His round cheeks are flushed pink.

“Yuta, you’ve met Sicheng, right? He’s from China too. Sicheng, have you met Yuta?”

“I have,” Sicheng answers, tone playful. He avoids Yuta’s quivering eyes. “He’s clumsy.”

Yuta isn’t very aware of what they’re saying, only observing the scene with caution. He makes a mention of the fire extinguisher to Kun, but it's lost inside the noise, so he keeps to drinking. At some point Kun leaves when his boyfriend picks him up to go dance. Then it’s just the two of them, Yuta and Sicheng, Yuta and _him_ —some part of Yuta doesn’t want to know for sure.

They stare at each other for a long time. Still holding Kun’s gift, Yuta talks for the most part while Sicheng listens, whispering here and there, and laughing cutely. The space between them decreases gradually, and Yuta vaguely feels the others’ presence spying on them. All of a sudden, there’s a possessiveness that ripples through him. He feels it rise in his chest as Sicheng continues to talk amiably, and no matter how Yuta tries to, he can’t detach the voice. He doesn’t know who’s speaking anymore. The faces are blurring.

He’s hyperaware of everything then, distinctively seeing himself back Jaehyun away when the other intrudes: “Dude, stop hogging the intern!” and almost snarling when he hears Ten shout from the other side of the room: “Birthday boys are getting some!” Sicheng’s expression isn’t so cheerful anymore. Yuta has him backed against the wall. The gyrating lights sweep over his face, he blinks in an out like a thought. Yuta knows he’s glaring at him, and he frees a hand to grab his wrist. Sicheng doesn’t struggle when he drags him out of the lounge. He doesn’t listen to the impatient voices calling around them.

The elevator ride is silent. When they exit onto the dark street, Sicheng stops them under the lamppost. He looks at Yuta wearily. The harsh wind in the air is accompanied by the faintest sound of laughter. Yuta leans forward and kisses him. The man offers no resistance, and Yuta pushes closer, the blender pressing between their stomachs.

They end up in Yuta’s apartment. Chenle has his friends over again. Every inch of Yuta’s body is screaming at him to get away, but he can’t fight it. The dread that’s been building up in his gut completely disappears when Sicheng sinks to his knees on the bedroom floor. Yuta doesn’t dare touch him, and so his hands grip the sheets, knuckles turning white. To not see the mirror, he shuts his eyes and forces himself to empty his head. They don’t fuck.

Sicheng lies asleep in his bed, in the same hollow place that used to belong to _him_. Yuta strokes his hair and waits for the thing that never comes. Sicheng’s soft breaths are the only sounds filling the silence. Nothing happens, and so Yuta just takes the time to feel conscious, to fall in the moment of the night; this point between their births, the interval of time between their existence where something happened.

 

—

 

Sicheng is a stranger. Yuta has to come to terms with the fact; he isn’t him. Yuta can’t possess nor predict Sicheng, because he’s a body, a head, a mind wholly unlike his. It’s not about disunion or abstraction. There’s no kind of association to be made in the first place; Sicheng has zero relation to Yuta.

They date. Yuta hasn’t been in a relationship since highschool, but he doesn’t question himself as he allows it. Neither of them officially ask, it just falls into place like pieces of a puzzle. Sicheng _is_ a mystery, but Yuta feels no need to solve it. It doesn’t matter anymore.

They have lunch together at the office. Sicheng comes over for dinner dates and drinks. Yuta meets his friends and they go out on trips with the office during weekends. Sicheng’s pretty head sticks out of the van’s window, the morning November breeze rustling his hair that glows red under the sunlight. Yuta captures each of these moments in his memory, because for some reason he won’t admit yet, he can’t put Sicheng to proof. He doesn’t take pictures because some hysteric part of himself still isn’t ready to accept it. The reality of things, the _thing_ in his head that has come alive.

He puts off sex for as long as he can. Sicheng doesn’t rush but Yuta is anxious. Partly because he finds himself liking Sicheng more than he’d thought, and the other part because he has no idea how his body will react, if he’ll lapse back to the false image of his mad self, and the last thing Yuta wants to do is hurt Sicheng. Because for the first time Yuta feels it’s not about himself anymore. That there’s a _them_ , in the end of things.

Sicheng feels this, of course. He catches Yuta’s eye sometimes after a good date, and his tone shifts. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Yuta never breaks gaze. “Like what?”

And sometimes Sicheng’s expression changes, discreetly yet so acutely, that there’s a split-second where his face takes _his_. Instances where Yuta shudders so hard it’s like the earth split apart with him. They go as fast as they come, but Yuta’s always left in cold sweat afterwards. He’s always left doubting again, and the itch under his skin urges him to seek out the body, to crack it apart and see what’s inside.

Sicheng appears like someone who has all the calm in the world inside his head, the most natural and graceful human being to exist, and Yuta is mad, he’s broken. He’s the one who feels like the intruder. The _other_. And some insane thoughts eventually come to his mind: that maybe he doesn’t exist at all, that Winwin and him were interchangeable in some third party’s conscience, or that Yuta could have even been Sicheng’s own manifestation, and in the end nothing of this was real. In the end it didn’t matter. The days where these thoughts drove him crazy Yuta wanted to erase himself from the world, he wanted to go away and be done with it. He wanted to die.

The peaceful bubble that’s surrounded him and Sicheng for the short time they’ve been together is losing surface, and just like with Winwin, it can only take so much before it bursts.

 

“Like I’m someone else.”

 

—

 

It happens one night. Yuta wakes up from a nightmare. The house and office were on fire, and Yuta had no face, and couldn’t see where he was going. The first thing that comes to his senses is the loud cheering from the floor above. Yuta remembers: it’s Chenle’s birthday.

His arm brushes the empty space next to him, and he jolts upward. Someone’s standing in the middle of his room, looking up. Yuta lets out a scream. At once, the person turns around, then lanky arms wrap around Yuta’s shaking body.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sicheng’s face comes into view, and though it’s dark, Yuta recognizes him. “It’s just me.”

Yuta’s cold hands spread over his head, caressing; Sicheng’s right ear is slightly pointed, something he’s noticed, and used for comparison. His breath comes out in stutters. Then, Yuta feels like he has a fever. A storm erupts in his head. On impulse, he grips Sicheng’s waist and pulls him to the bed until he’s on top of him. He buries his head in the man's neck, breathing his warm scent, before pressing hard kisses up his jaw. Chenle’s shouts echo with a resounding thud. Yuta digs his fingers into Sicheng’s hips, and the man arches up, breathing out heavily.

It’s furious. Full of fire and passion. They make love in such a sudden frenzy that Yuta’s mind blanks out completely. His thoughts short-circuit, becoming fixed on Sicheng's slender body writhing below him, Sicheng and his beautiful, quiet sounds, his lovely skin that blooms like roses. Sicheng whose hand finds Yuta’s beside his head, who entwines their fingers and seizes Yuta like he’s a lifesaver, clenching around him when he comes. Yuta kisses him deeply, swallowing the dragged-out moan. But he hears it in his head nonetheless, and the distortion takes shape behind his eyes. As Yuta unravels, he realizes how much his body’s missed this, the _heat_ , the scorching touch of skin, the intimate looks that burn into his memory. He loses himself in it, as his hold on Sicheng tenses. There are no marks or bruises now, only the print of his hands on his skin, and the afterimage in his head.

Sicheng pulls him close and kisses him. “I love you,” he says. Yuta closes his eyes that are brimmed with tears, but he doesn’t sleep. Inside the house, the noise dies out.

 

—

 

Yuta learns that Sicheng was present at the party during the summer. Which means there was an occurrence where Winwin and Sicheng took place within the same space and time, a period in existence where the three of them were together. Yuta doesn't remember that night very well, but the thought haunts him constantly, to know that there could have been a moment where he faced them both, side-by-side.

Sicheng leaves for a week to go visit his family in China. Yuta is restless, afraid at the idea that he won’t come back, or worse, that someone else will in his place. He’s alone for these torturous days, and Yuta knows that loneliness has never done him any good. It was second nature to his madness. Winwin was a poison, but Sicheng isn't the antidote. 

“The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes…” Jungwoo recites calmly to Yukhei in the back of the room, helping for rehearsal. “…To grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death…”

Yuta hears the words travel around the room and infiltrate his thoughts. Something about Jungwoo's rhythm and tone at the moment distracts him. Yukhei answers promptly in his gravelly voice. Yuta is listening to them when his phone suddenly buzzes, and he checks the message on the screen. _I’m here_. There's a dreadful drop in his gut before he catches Sicheng’s name over the words. The next moment, the doors of the office open, and Yuta tilts his phone, to see from his screen the man enter the room.

“There, my lord,” Yukhei says.

Yuta turns around and hurries over to wrap him in his arms, ignoring the cooing noises from the two interns behind them. Sicheng’s dark eyes are closed when he murmurs in Yuta’s ear: “I missed you.” His deep voice resonates inside Yuta’s head, becoming more and more furious, and without thinking, he shoves the man away. He examines Sicheng’s hurt expression for a few seconds before compensating it with a vicious kiss. Silence falls in the room. It’s some time after the fury calms in his head, when he stops trembling that Yuta makes himself look at the man, look at him properly, to see the unknown Sicheng, who unlike him was never two people, never had more than one face—and Yuta hears Jungwoo’s soft voice echo inside the room as he reasons with this;

“This was sometime a paradox,  
but now the time gives it proof,  
I did love you once.”

 

—

 

Sicheng changes. From the day of his return, he becomes idle, as Yuta becomes clingier. Sicheng loses something in his spirit; he smiles less, talks less, and his work at the office becomes slow. He gets tired quickly. By the start of December, he suddenly falls sick. Yuta makes him stay at his house since it's closer to the office. He does his best to help nurse Sicheng back to his self, but it always ends up with fever-hot kisses and Yuta pulling off their clothes. Sicheng's body is burning, set ablaze with all the terrible emotions inside Yuta. Becoming frailer and weaker, but for some reason it only rouses his desire, inflames the passion, makes Yuta want him more. 

They have sex, fiercely, madly. Because of his state, Sicheng can't do much, and so Yuta takes his time to devour him instead. To print every inch of Sicheng's body of his, until the greed Yuta's heart and head is satiated, until he breathes again feeling revived. Yuta drains Sicheng to his core, until he can be sure the man under him is real. Until Sicheng himself can know, and convince Yuta of his sanity.

Sometimes Yuta's eyes wander back to the closet mirror, the glass still fissured as he left it, and when he looks back at Sicheng, the man loses his likeness. He's not Winwin, but he's not himself either. Sicheng is a form, an image in colours, an assemblage of shapes and matter unrelated, unintended. And Yuta—what can he make of it, what can he do? How could he change Sicheng's face from the very embodiment of his madness, how could he prove to himself and the world that he was nothing but just a play of fate?

10:49. It's late. Yuta's mind is wide awake, and his body full of force. He's never slept so heavily in his life than in the past days. Because of a schedule delay in the office, he has the last shift for the evening. Kun comes in at 11:30, and Yuta is saying his goodbyes to Jungwoo who leaves toward the elevator. With the last of the documents in his hands, Yuta shuts off the lights in his office and makes his way to the print room. 

In the empty hallway, he finds Sicheng, carrying a tablet, and locking a meeting room. He's wearing his round glasses again. Yuta doesn't shake up when he sees him anymore, but he can never stop himself from thinking about _him_. Sicheng notices him, and though his skin is pale and his eyes are hollow and sunken, he manages a smile. They walk together to the small print room where Yuta goes to the shredder, and Sicheng activates the copy machine. There's a moment of silence before the first beeps resound in the enclosed space. Yuta's hand hovers over the paper and he turns around.

"How was your day? How are you feeling?"

Sicheng is standing in front of the control panel. Yuta's eyes rake down his back, lingering on the slender shoulders. He hears him answer, saying he's fine, feeling much better, actually, _Doyoung gave me some pills this morning, they're really good_. Yuta listens to the whirring of the scanner, and replies absent-mindedly when Sicheng asks him the same. His fingers holding the piece of paper halt right above the shredder's mouth, but the blades suck it in anyway. It's eaten in a blink of an eye. Yuta's movements stop as he feels the air around them lift. He stares straight at Sicheng, who after a few seconds of pause, turns his head toward Yuta. Their eyes meet—the man's expression is a little bored. Sicheng turns back and sets the tablet on the tray.

Yuta doesn't move. There's a tremor rising in his chest, rising with the tension in the room. His vision becomes sharp, straining his eyes, dotting black on black. He feels a heat working him up, and it's making him dizzy. Sicheng continues to print, and though his movements have increased, they've slowed considerably. He slips away to face the cover of the machine, and all of a sudden, he stops. The current of air in the room stops. Yuta feels time and space come to a halt. Then, in an excruciatingly slow, lazy manner, Sicheng turns his head to his shoulder, cocking it to the side, and trains his dark eye into Yuta. The gaze under his lashes is heavy and magnetic. He looks at Yuta and almost, _a_ _lmost_ smiles.

One second. Then, Yuta leaps onto him, one hand finding the man's head and gripping his hair, the other pushing at his back. He thrusts Sicheng onto the machine and his face presses against the mat. The glasses dislodge and bounce up his cheeks. Yuta bends down and bites his nape — Sicheng whimpers softly. Teeth travel up to his face and he opens his mouth to the angry, wet kiss. Sucking in a harsh breath, Yuta tugs the man's vest up his shoulder blades and licks down his spine. His hands find Sicheng's belt, feeling the hardened body through the clothing.

"You want this?" The response is a high-pitched whine, followed by the quick sputters of the machine discharging the copies. Yuta's thoughts stall for a critical, thinking moment. His head throbs, and his blood is boiling. He leans back to tear off his suit jacket and roll his sleeves. Sicheng watches him intently, gaze heavy and pupils blown. Something about it tells Yuta he was anticipating this. To be sprawled over the machine, caught off-guard and exposed, begging for it and at the same time to stop. His mouth falls open with a hoarse moan when Yuta thrusts into him, thick pink lips flattening against the screen. When he shuts his eyes and gasps, Yuta's eyes fall to the control panel, and he punches the scan button.

The machine whirs loudly, sending vibrations through his body. The next second, the blue line alights under the glass and sweeps under Sicheng's face. The man's head jerks forward with each of Yuta's thrusts, and he brings his hand next to it to support himself. Fingers harden and coil up on the screen. The light blinks out and cuts past Sicheng's face a second time, stretching under his expression twisted in pleasure. Hot and breathless, Yuta loses himself in the picture under him, going faster, harder, more ruthless than ever. Sicheng moans, cries out, whimpers and shouts in notes, hardened hands scrambling over the machine and red lips spreading spit on the screen. His obscured face glows white with the light that diffuses up and down his head, capturing the motion of expression, and for a few seconds Sicheng is without a face. Yuta's hands unconsciously climb closer to the man's throat. The sounds in the room multiply and overlap, and Sicheng chokes up as he comes. 

The copy machine whirs again, printing out the papers. When Yuta finally pulls away, the room seems to have frozen up. He cleans himself and approaches Sicheng, who hasn't moved an inch. There are bite marks all over his neck and tears in his eyes. They're both shaking uncontrollably. 

"Yuta..." comes the inaudible whisper. Yuta kisses Sicheng slowly, helping him up. He's sweating all over, and unlike all the last times they've had sex, Yuta feels exhausted. There's a terrible weight that's fallen over him. It's in the air, in his breath, even in his eyes as he strains to keep looking at Sicheng who gathers himself on the floor. Yuta turns to the machine and picks up the four copies laid on the wrong side out. He stares at them hard, and for a long time, passing thought after thought, sentiment after sentiment. If he looks at them, it will be done. If he turns them, all of this ends. He'll be free at last, just like he wanted, and all of this will be put behind him for good. It's what he wants—it's what he _needs_.

It's like a state of _possession_ in process, when he finds himself walking toward the shredder and sliding the papers inside. The chirring noise is like music to his ears. Yuta turns back to Sicheng on the ground. He kneels to his side and cups the man's face in his hands. Thumbs stroke over his round cheeks and under his dark eyes. "I love you," Yuta says resolutely, over all the horrible screaming in his head.

 

—

 

It hurts, but there's no helping it. There's nothing to save—Yuta is mad, and their love is beyond cure. He falls into an abominable spiral, turning in interminable circles, in pursuit of a reason, of a sense to define them. What is he, after all? What is Sicheng? What are they? Him and Sicheng, him and himself, him and them, him...

The week before Christmas, the office organizes a party for the holidays. Sicheng's health has improved considerably, while Yuta's state of mind has fallen to ruin. He can't think clearly anymore, and only has his senses to keep him grounded to reality. Sights and sounds, Sicheng's appearance, his touch, his voice, his words. If it weren't for him, Yuta would be gone. Sicheng is the only thread that's tying him to the presence of the world, and the truth that remains untold.

Yuta leads them to the bathroom where he dries his hair, while the man fixes his makeup for the night. He answers Sicheng's talk emptily. It's how it's been for a while now, small conversations in the absence, in the void. The communication is dead, and Yuta's become a ghost.

He's half-way through his reply when he raises his head, and sees Sicheng peering into the mirror. Yuta drops the towel in his hands. Sicheng inches closer to the glass to inspect the line under his eyes, enough that his nose and lips brush the surface. The two images touch. Yuta's heart beats so hard it's shattering his chest. He takes a step forward and then Sicheng looks at him in the mirror. He stops breathing.

"Yuta?"

Another step. Sicheng turns around. It's him— _it's not him!_ The face blurs. Yuta's hands come to circle his neck. Sicheng's breath hitches lightly as he lets him press his fingers into his throat. Yuta feels the resistance when he swallows, and he squeezes harder. Sicheng makes no sound. A tense moment passes, but nothing happens. In the reflection, Yuta catches his ghastly face, his bloodshot eyes wide open, his pale skin, his mouth quivering in fear, his jaw locked and hardened so much his pulse is jumping. The sight scares him out of his trance, but it's the imperceptible touch at the back of his head that makes him withdraw. His fingers slowly slip from Sicheng's throat, burning, _burning_.

An impenetrable silence. Yuta breaks down. He falls to his knees and the cry that escapes him is ripped straight out from his heart. He screams so hard that he can feel it split his head. He shuts his eyes until he sees white. Arms wrap around him and rock him lightly, and through the bursts of harsh coughs and sobs, the deep voice reaches him, cooing gently: "It's OK. It's OK. Yuta, please, look at me. It's going to be OK..."

It's over. Is it the end? Is it done at last? Sicheng holds Yuta's head against his chest, and Yuta cries until his body empties. He cries until his heart gives out. Until the whole room melts around with him, and all there's left to be at last is the body in the mirror.

 

—

 

Stomping. Yuta wakes to the cold blue light invading the bedroom. He lies unmoving on the bed, listening to the increase of the music and the voices. There's a ringing in his ears. The space next to him is warm and heavy, filled with soft breaths. 

His chest tightens, and then every single nerve in his body stirs up. A swarm of chills run over him. Yuta's eyes move toward the side of the open door. There, in the thick of the darkness, a figure stands, immobile. It's without a body, without a shadow, but only a round face, and a wide smile that petrifies him. Yuta's eyes fix on the figure, and he sees that it's holding something, long and cylindrical—the fire extinguisher.

A muffled outburst of screams resounds inside the house. Yuta rolls onto his side, hands and feet pushing over the bed. He drags himself up until he's standing, staring back at the figure at the door, black as a hole. He takes a step, walking afloat, slipping over the floor. The figure's smile grows wider, and it turns around, disappearing into the exit. Yuta looks at the clock before he follows him out the door. Kun will be home soon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> we are not the same, only one of me/nan neogo neon naya


End file.
